


others

by MaryPSue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (or irritatingly wrong whichever comes first), Fantasy Racism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Let's Just Say Hela Put Some Things In Perspective, Original Character-centric, i know just enough about norse mythology and viking culture to be dangerous, implied/referenced cultural genocide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 00:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: Not everyone has easy access to other realms or the wonders hidden in the Allfather's treasury. But a certain second prince of Asgard was never as alone as he thought.





	others

Ingrid’s hands are always cold.

She doesn’t seem to notice, but Jens does. Whenever she takes his hand, strokes his cheek – she’s just cold enough to make him start. She seems to think he mocks her, and teases right back, trailing chilly fingers over sensitive places, pressing freezing feet against his bare legs in bed. But Jens has seen how others react to her touch – the startled faces, the quickly-withdrawn hands. It’s not his imagination. Ingrid’s hands are always cold.

She brought it up, once, when her parents were dining with them. She’d laughed, about how Jens teases her, about how much he must love her to put up with her freezing touch.

Her parents had laughed only weakly.

Ingrid’s mother was old when she was born, around the end of the last war with Jötunheim, as Jens recalls. She’d been near three thousand, older than most new mothers. She’d called Ingrid their blessing, their gift. She’d told Jens, once, while they were preparing for the wedding, that she and her husband had been trying for centuries before Ingrid came to them. She’d said it just like that – “came to us”.

Jens recalls that Ingrid is an only child.

But Ingrid is – Ingrid is _Ingrid_. The chestnut-haired maiden who’d caught Jens’ eye at the midsummer festival and has never let it go. Ingrid has the most beautiful laugh in the nine realms. Ingrid has eyes like the longest night of winter, dark as a midday with no sun, deep and full of hidden thoughts that she sometimes shares with him, in secret, when they two lie tangled together.

Ingrid is the mother of their child.

So Jens pinches his wife to make her squeal and laugh, and kisses her until they’re both quite breathless, and lets whatever foolish, impossible suspicion may try to rear its ugly serpent-head settle back under the still waters of his mind.

And tolerates Ingrid’s frozen feet tucked tight against his own.

…

The longest of memories can be cut short, if the telling of tales is banned, if the tellers’ tongues are taken from their heads. But it is the tales that take their place that truly ensure what is remembered.

Peder is beginning to understand, as he nears the end of his training, just how much power the skalds wield. For the first time, he’s been given access to the royal library, to poems and sagas of a time before the Allfather’s precious peace. And he’d thought Asgard a warrior culture _now_.

There is much of glory there, tales of heroic victory over ruthless, cunning, and bloodthirsty opponents, many of whom are now called friends and allies (the imprecations against the Vanir and Freyr in particular are singularly funny, in retrospect). But for one who has learned to read what is not there as clearly as what is, there is also much of cruelty.

“They are reflections of a time and the people of that time,” his teacher says, when Peder admits many of the old stories disquiet him.

“Many of them still live,” Peder points out.

And then he finds the poem. Or – not so much a poem, as a fragment, a scrap of page that looks more than half-burnt, hidden at the back of a shelf behind books thick with velvety dust. No more than four lines survive, but when he reads them, they chill Peder’s blood. Not so much for what they say, as what they are careful not to say.

_Softest spring shoots fear frost’s fingers_.

No warrior, Peder knows, would take pride in the slaying of an infant. Most would be disgusted, horrified, at the very thought. But – if that infant were of another realm, a conquered realm, one whose people did not even resemble the people of Asgard; if that infant might one day grow to take up arms against the Realm Eternal – how far does sympathy extend? How far the need for conquest to be absolute? How much shame might one willingly shoulder in exchange for the unending glory of one’s realm, one’s king?

What horrors have skalds such as himself been hired – or forced – to hide? What horrors might he himself be called upon to conceal?

On whose bones is his beloved Asgard built?

…

Leif has always been small for his age.

It has ever been his bane. While the other boys were graduating from play-wrestling to war-training, from staves to blunted practice weaponry, from sparring to questing, he was struggling to keep up, to hold his own against those who quickly outstripped him in both size and strength. The other boys make comments, when they think he cannot hear and when they know he can. _Runt. Half-breed. Changeling._

His foster-father drives him all the harder. His foster-mother looks on him with sadness and suspicion, when she thinks he cannot see. They are not his true parents. Leif has been told, so many times, of how his true father fell in battle with the dwarven folk, in an age when all were enemies. About how his true mother went mad with grief, how all that his father’s shieldbrother could do for them was to take in their helpless, homeless child.

Leif’s foster-father always makes it sound like a noble sacrifice. Like a legacy Leif is failing to live up to.

Leif quickly finds the only way he can outmatch his peers is in fury. And the age of the berserker is long over. So he turns his hand, instead, to the machinery of war.

Smaller hands, as it falls out, are all the better suited to delicate clockwork and intricate decoration. The strength Leif has won so dearly, not perhaps enough to overwhelm his opponents in direct combat, is more than enough to pound hot metal into submission. And there is…something. Something about the heat of the forge, of the glint of the metal, of the weight and balance of the tools under his hands.

He tells his customers that the metal speaks to him. It’s a pretty fiction. Metal doesn’t speak.

Metal _sings_.

The day the Allfather’s emissary arrives to place an order is the proudest moment of Leif’s existence. The weapons he makes are marvels, worthy of royalty. His reputation has grown as tall and as mighty as he himself never has.

Still…

His foster-mother’s pity, his foster-father’s disdain, do not seem to change. And still the whispers follow. _Disgrace to the memory of his family. No true warrior at all._

…

Everyone knows that there are more children born after the end of a war. That on their return from the front, most warriors of Asgard are welcomed warmly home. And if some of the babes said to be born in the war-boom seem a little too old, none would dare speak a word of it.

Everyone, after all, has their little secrets.

…

“Who – or what – is Hela?”

Peder’s teacher does not start. She is far too dignified – and far too old. Still, Peder thinks he spies the briefest flicker of shock across her face, before she schools it back into impassivity. “Where did you come by _that_ name?”

“In some old text, in the royal library,” Peder says. “It called Hela ‘half-dead’.” He considers, a moment longer. “And ‘kingdom-killer’.”

“Some reference to Ragnarok, I would not doubt,” his teacher says. “Perhaps one of Surtur’s devils. Have you no more productive matter to turn your attention to?”

Peder takes in the studious way she ignores him, and changes tack. “The hanged god – that is one of the Allfather’s kennings, is it not? One given by the mortals of Midgard?”

His teacher looks up from the illumination she labours over, raising one eyebrow. “Yes, though now much fallen out of use, as it references only mortal myth. You must have dug deep in the royal library, to have stumbled across it.”

“I must indeed,” Peder agrees. “Thank you. This will help me greatly with this commission work. Which I should return to.”

He makes a hasty exit, his mind turning over and over. His teacher has lied to him, lied to his face. She recognised the name of Hela. It was as clear as her own surprise. And the name refers to no devil of Muspell. It’s plainly written in the four scorched lines of hidden poetry that have burned themselves on Peder’s brain.

_Hela, hanged-god’s right hand…_

…

It’s not that Sinna isn’t beautiful. It’s only that her beauty is _strange_.

There’s something ever so slightly off in her proportions, something that no one can quite pin down. Perhaps her ice-blue eyes are set too wide, perhaps her snow-white brow is too flat, perhaps her small rosebud mouth is too crowded into her pointed chin. Perhaps her slender neck and limbs are just a little too long. Perhaps her pale golden hair is just a shade too close to white.

There is an air of something breakable about her, something delicate and fine. Somehow, no one quite trusts it.

Men accuse her of bewitching them. Women accuse her of bewitching men. Sinna, though she has little taste or talent for magic, somehow gains a reputation as a formidable witch.

Sinna’s mother is livid, when she hears. She will have none of Sinna’s protests that it isn’t true, that even if it were, there is no shame in a woman working magic. “Not in my house,” she repeats, with every blow of the switch. “Not _my_ daughter!”

When the magic does come, Sinna does not welcome it. She turns it away, tamps it down, buries it as best she can deep within her and tries to pretend it’s not there. Even once she’s left her mother’s household, the stinging memory lingers long.

…

“Did anything strike you as…strange, on Jötunheim?”

“It is a realm of ice and darkness inhabited entirely by angry, murderous blue giants. Who were all but naked. Did anything strike you as _not_ strange, on Jötunheim?”

“No, only – did you notice any _young_ ones?”

Fandral looks up from the shoulder wound Eir’s fussing over, but Volstagg won’t meet his eyes. “Young ones? We were locked in battle to the death. Why would there be children there?”

“Not _children_, though – that as well,” Volstagg says, sounding uncertain but also mulish, as though he isn’t sure about this conversation but is determined to have it anyway. “Warriors our own age. Or your own age, anyway. They all seemed much older – at least, from the way they fought, I would say so. Though why would there _not_ be children?”

“In a throne room? On a field of battle?”

Volstagg falls silent, apparently defeated by this brilliant lance of logic. He recovers all too quickly, though. “How often did we and Thor try to eavesdrop on visiting ambassadors from other realms? At least, until we learned what a bore it was. And would they not seek glory in battle all the more if they were not yet proven?”

“Who knows? Maybe the Jötnar eat their young. What concern is it of yours, anyway?”

It takes Volstagg a moment to answer. “I don’t know. I only thought it strange.”

…

The libraries of Asgard are great, but they are far from absolute. Some of the realms have little to speak of by way of recorded knowledge – the mayfly Midgardians, to name one, did not even possess a written language until the Allfather gifted them the runes, as any child knows – but the Great Library of Alfheim is legendary among the skalds for a reason. It is said that, if there is knowledge that one cannot find elsewhere – even the most cursed or forbidden – it can be found on Alfheim, though only one strong of mind and skilled of tongue will ever return with what they seek from the endless depths of the stacks.

It’s a slim chance, but, Peder thinks, if he is to find the truth of this matter of Hela, there is no better place to start.

But to reach the library, he must first cross the Bifrost. And to cross the Bifrost, he must first pass its guardian.

There is no real restriction on travel between the realms, as far as Peder knows, and his purposes are harmless. Still, he has never been offworld – does not know anyone who has, save his teacher, and he cannot speak to her of this. And, like much of Asgard, he finds something unnerving about Heimdall’s unwavering gaze.

As it comes to pass, though, he does not make it far enough to confront Heimdall at all. The bridge extends from the palace through the city, out the gates, across the endlessly-falling waters, before it reaches the dome from which each journey to another realm begins. The golden gates at the borders of the city are guarded, though, and Peder is stopped before he can pass.

“Who are you?” one of the guards demands, as Peder pulls up short.

“Peder Gunnarsson, from the guild of skalds,” Peder says, reining in his horse. “I would pay a visit to Alfheim.”

“What business have you on Alfheim?” the other guard asks, warily.

Peder looks from one guard to the other.

“Research,” he says.

“The Bifrost is not for pleasure trips,” the first guard says, frowning.

“And without royal authorisation, you cannot pass,” the second guard says, studying Peder with a look Peder does not entirely like. “The trip must be authorised, your identity verified.”

“I have heard nothing of such protocol,” Peder says, and the guards look at each other.

“The Bifrost is also not a toy,” the first guard says. “If all who wished were allowed access to it at any time, it would be vulnerable to sabotage, wear, dangerous misuse…”

Peder bites his tongue to keep from saying that he thought that was what Heimdall was there for, or mentioning that having royal authorisation did not protect the Bifrost from any of those things when King-Regent Loki held the throne.

“I see,” he says, instead. “Thank you.”

He feels the guards’ eyes lingering on his back as he turns and rides away.

…

It’s a day’s travel by foot from the village where Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three routed the bandits to the farm where Hogun was born, where he spent his earliest years. Those with whom he speaks reassure him that his father and mother still dwell there, still well and hale, but still, he makes all haste. There is some irrational fear in him that he will arrive and find them gone.

But instead, his mother greets him at the door of the farmhouse. It takes her a moment, but then recognition dawns, and she throws herself forward, flinging both arms around his neck. Such a display of emotion is most unlike what Hogun remembers of her, and he finds himself stunned for a moment before he thinks to return the embrace.

His father is less demonstrative, but the way he looks upon Hogun speaks to emotion deeper than words, deeper even than action, can express.

“My son,” he says, and then seems unable to say more.

Hogun’s mother pulls away, looking him over from head to toe. “The Asgardians gave you leave to return? Are you injured? Ill? How long will they let you stay?”

Hogun looks from mother to father. They have aged, in the centuries since he saw them last. Silver glitters throughout his mother’s hair, and that crease between his father’s eyes seems permanent, now. He sees nothing to suggest that they are anything but sincere. “Neither, and I will stay as long as I wish. Thor himself suggested this visit. They are not my _jailors_. We are shieldbrothers. Friends.”

His mother reaches up, to clasp his shoulder. “It is good that you have won the favour and the friendship of the Thunderer, if it means you were free – and able – to return to us.” Something bitter seeps into her voice as she says, “So many do not.”

They speak no further on it, talk turning instead to what has changed since Hogun left for Asgard, how his cousins fare, the state of the farm. It is only later, over a dinner which Hogun tells his mother is quite the equal of any feast served in Asgard’s golden halls, that her ire is rekindled.

“I should hope so. The least they could do is feed you well before sending you out to die for them,” she says, and that bitterness once more fills her voice.

Hogun thinks, briefly, of the training grounds on Asgard, of the others he learned the warrior’s way alongside, Æsir and Vanir alike. It had been an enormous honour, to be selected to join the einherjar, and every one of the boys from Vanaheim who he had known had been as excited as he. “But surely to die in glorious battle -”

“Is still to die.”

Hogun’s father darts a warning look in his mother’s direction. “Forgive your mother. When we sent you to Asgard to train as a warrior…” He shakes his head. “Peace with Asgard was hard-won, and came with concessions. They are the best of our friends and allies now, but…Vanaheim could not feed its every hungry mouth. Honour it may be, to send our finest youth to Asgard to join the ranks of its warriors, but it is necessity, too.”

“And then the Allfather uses them as one uses kindling,” Hogun’s mother mutters, and his father shoots her a sharp look.

“Have a care. You do not know who might be listening.” He casts his eyes skyward. “Who might be _watching_.”

Hogun follows his father’s gaze, thinks of every time he or one of the others has called for the Bifrost. Thinks of Heimdall’s golden gaze, all-seeing, unblinking.

Wonders, perhaps for the first time, how the golden realm comes by its gold.

…

When they number the dead after Malekith’s assault, even seasoned warriors are stunned. Not only the number of the fallen is shocking, though, nor merely the violence of their deaths. It has been an age since any not aided by treachery dared raise arms against the Realm Eternal, let alone attack Asgard on its own ground.

Near as many are missing as dead, torn away into the dark elves’ strange black-hole grenades. Most of those not accounted for are soldiers, warriors, those who stood in defense of the realm and the innocent lives sheltered there. Most civilians lost are found, during the rebuilding, and those who are shattered beyond recognition are soon matched to reports of the missing.

But there is one that is…puzzling.

The skald Peder Gunnarsson is reported as missing by his mother not long after the assault. Nothing has been taken from his rooms, no one knows of any plans he might have had to journey abroad, but no sign of him is ever found. It is believed that he must have been in the palace library when the dark elves attacked, that he must have been caught in one of their strange grenades.

There can be no other explanation for why a man with no known enemies should suddenly disappear without trace.

…

_So spake Hela, hanged-god’s right hand,_

_Hela half-dead, kingdom-killer:_

_“Thorns grow thickest where cut cruelly;_

_Softest spring shoots fear frost’s fingers.”_

_Odin all-wise kept his counsel_

_Nine realms’ babes a time bethought him._

_Warlike wanderer, born to bloodshed,_

_Wisdom-wounded, peace he pondered._

_Turned he then to gentle Frigga,_

_Frigga witch-wife, fair far-seer_

_To divine fates for foes’ orphans_

_And for own death-dealing daughter._

_Thus advised the All-Queen wisely:_

_“In youth’s raising rest realms’ futures.”_

…

Death stalks the streets of Asgard.

Hela, she calls herself. And: rightful heir. And: goddess of death. The first two cannot be proven. The third already has. The bodies still litter the plaza before the palace gates.

Ingrid’s husband lies among them.

So far, only good fortune and Heimdall’s all-seeing eyes have kept Ingrid and her son from joining him. But as the survivors huddle together on the bridge, beset from both sides, it seems good fortune has now run out.

“Close your eyes,” Ingrid whispers to little Jens, scooping him up into her arms and pressing his face into her shoulder. At least, perhaps, she can spare him some measure of the terror, the despair that besets her. The one called Hela and her _draugr_ army, Ingrid knows, will not. “Close your eyes, hold fast to me…”

The roar around and behind them grows louder. Somewhere in the crowd, a child some years younger than little Jens starts to wail, and Ingrid strokes her son’s hair, forcing herself to keep the movement slow and gentle. She doesn’t want him to know how afraid she is.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, watching as Heimdall raises his sword against the undead, as those with weapons, makeshift or otherwise, step forward to earn their place in Valhalla. “Shh, shh, love. Everything -” Her voice cracks, and she swallows around the hard block of terror sitting in her throat, forcing herself to smile as she lies. “Everything will be all right.”

The first of what will no doubt be many shouts comes from behind her, and Ingrid has to resist the desire to shut her own eyes, to bury her face in her child’s downy hair so that she need not see her doom come upon her. Instead, she forces herself to turn, to face death – and sees why the shout had sounded so strangely joyful.

The roar Ingrid has been hearing is not the advancing army, or Fenrir’s thundering paws, but a _ship_, rising from the void that surrounds the Bifrost. And standing in its opening doors, arms outstretched, cloak billowing, the golden horns of his signature helm gleaming in the fading light – is the disgraced second prince. Loki. The one who had let them all think him dead, that he could take the Allfather’s place. A traitor.

And, apparently, a saviour.

All falls to chaos, after that. Ingrid clutches little Jens tight as people buffet her on all sides, pushing forward with the crush towards the ship. Battle rages around them, and little Jens squawks and squirms in his mother’s arms, but Ingrid refuses to loosen her grip. It does not matter now if he is frightened, not if it means a chance of his surviving. It is a chance she had not dared hope for. She will not allow it to slip away from her now.

She’s on the ramp, almost close enough to reach out and touch the frame of the enormous bay door, when someone stumbles sharply into her, knocking her off-balance. Ingrid staggers, drops to one knee. Little Jens shrieks in her arms. The void yawns away before her, the vast empty gap older than all nine realms, seeming to tug at her, determined to pull her and her son both down –

A hand closes, firm, around Ingrid’s arm, just above the elbow, and draws her inexorably back to her feet.

Ingrid looks up, but her rescuer’s eyes are fixed on the battle below. “Keep moving,” Prince Loki says, with one fleeting glance back in Ingrid’s direction, and then he is gone, into the fray. Ingrid heeds his words, hurrying through the doors and into the belly of the vast starship, into the arms of safety.

And, caught up in relief and fear and grief and hope, Ingrid quickly forgets the unaccountable chill that had accompanied the prince’s touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me the attempt at alliterative poetry. Turns out it's hard to write! Who would've guessed.


End file.
